


Quiet Warp

by Helmhammerhand



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Implied Mikasa Ackerman/Eren Yeager, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 21:00:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1702385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helmhammerhand/pseuds/Helmhammerhand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How long had he been keeping up this charade? He had had real feelings for her in the beginning, but it quickly became blatantly obvious that Mikasa was so far out of reach she might as well have been beyond the walls. He couldn't pinpoint when he had stopped pining after her, but he knew that it was starting to be apparent he was only acting. He had been fighting Eren and trying for Mikasa for so long now, that he wasn't sure if the two actions weren't one in the same. Eventually someone would figure out that he wasn't really interested in her, but he wasn't sure what else to do with himself. He had worn this aggressive demeanor as a mask for years, and ever since Marco died, he could take it off only when he felt truly alone. A feeling which was gradually becoming more frequent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiet Warp

Something about Eren looking the picture of domesticity, scrubbing the floors diligently, made Jean smirk inwardly to himself. It was almost inadvertent, but he had to keep up appearances. He turned in the doorway and shouted, "Hey, Mikasa! At least you'll always have someone to clean up after you."

"Fuck off, Kirschstein!" The rag Eren had been using struck Jean in the face. He grabbed it and put it on top of a bookshelf in the main room that he knew was too tall for Eren to reach. "Gladly, Jaeger," he said as he walked down the hall towards the bedrooms. Behind him, he heard Mikasa knock the rag down to give back to Eren, telling him to calm down.

Jean stopped outside the door to the boys' bedroom and planted his forehead against the wall, feeling the rough wood grate against his skin. It wasn't particularly painful, but the sensation was reassuring. How long had he been keeping up this charade? He had had real feelings for her in the beginning, but it quickly became blatantly obvious that Mikasa was so far out of reach she might as well have been beyond the walls. He couldn't pinpoint when he had stopped pining after her, but he knew that it was starting to be apparent he was only acting. He had been fighting Eren and trying for Mikasa for so long now, that he wasn't sure if the two actions weren't one in the same. Eventually someone would figure out that he wasn't really interested in her, but he wasn't sure what else to do with himself. He had worn this aggressive demeanor as a mask for years, and ever since Marco died, he could take it off only when he felt truly alone. A feeling which was gradually becoming more frequent.

He scoffed at himself and kicked his foot against the baseboard of the wall softly. He didn't want to die wearing a mask. To face death honestly, as his true self, was a desire he felt he might cheat himself out of. Each day he kept up the facade, he felt it replacing parts of him. And for what benefit? None of his team felt compelled to care about him, except superficially; a fact Jean himself had helped establish. He had been pushing everyone away even before Marco's death, but he couldn't figure out how to stop, or if he really wanted to. It had been comforting at the time, not feeling responsible to anyone, but now he just felt empty.

"Only you could be alone in a crowd, Jean, and still demand all the attention…" he said under his breath, grinding his teeth together.

Faintly he became aware of a rasping sound coming from the bedroom. Someone was sweeping, and he pitied the person stuck with such a futile task. Clearly no one had lived in this house for years, and the dust had its own distinct layers like thick sediment. Apparently whoever was sweeping felt quite the same way, as they stopped every few seconds. Jean listened to the metronomic sounds with his eyes closed, trying to decide whether it was worth the effort to put on his debonair persona. It drained him so much, and he was tired of it.

"Ahh!" A frustrated squeak came from the bedroom, causing Jean to peer at the doorway silently. He couldn't see who was in there, but he had a fairly accurate idea. He inched closer, not daring to look in lest he disturbed them, but too interested to not listen.

"I knew I should've gotten a haircut when we were still in town. Who knows how long I'll have to wait now? I doubt there is a decent pair of scissors in this shack, and there's no way I'd let anyone at my head with a knife. Except maybe Mikasa."

Jean flinched at the name, but decided to risk glancing into the room. Armin stood propping himself against one of the bedposts, the broom lay precariously against the bed. He was fidgeting, desperately trying to keep his hair out of his eyes although his body language seemed to suggest it was a losing fight. He gently kicked the broom in frustration and it clattered to the floor. 'He's placid even in his anger,' Jean thought. 'I suppose that's why he's can come up with such brilliant plans. Unlike the rest of this raggedy lot, he's got a much better hold on his emotions.'

Armin sighed and knelt down to pick up the broom. He began sweeping again, but it didn't seem like he was really focusing on it. Working his way between two beds, he tried to reach as far under each as he could. The dust clouds surged up into the air and hung in the sunlight pouring in from the window, glistening. Jean could see the look of consternation on his face, which quickly changed to alarm before — "Achoo! Aarrrrgg." Jean smirked to himself. He had never seen Armin so frustrated, at least not in a life-threatening situation. Jean had to admit, he could be quite adorable when he scrunched up his nose in aggravation. With a pause, Jean noticed his eyes had the intense ferocity Jean had seen when during the 57th. Armin threw the broom at the ground and covered his eyes with his hands. Slowly he brought them up and pushed his bangs away from his face. "I'd chew my hair I could, it's almost long enough" he whispered to himself, as he dropped down on one of the beds. He laid back on it, his hair splayed out around him which made Armin seem quite pleased. He closed his eyes, resting.

Jean was considering walking back to the common room, beginning to feel a bit like a peeper, but couldn't seem to tear himself away from the sight. He shifted on his feet, about to turn when the floorboard beneath him groaned. Jean felt himself rooted to the spot as a cold shiver flew down his nerves like frozen lightening. Armin's eyes flashed open as he sat up, turning to look at the doorway. Surprise melted from his face when their eyes met. "Ah, hey Jean. I was just taking a break from cleaning."

'Shitshitshit I've got to think of something to say!' Jean thought frantically. With a jolt, he watched the mask he so delicately kept fall from his face for the first time since he'd been with Marco. Internally, he watched it shatter on the floor, trying to figure out if that pleased or terrified him. He stared at the ground. Armin followed his gaze, but could see nothing particularly interesting about the floorboards. "Oh, I meant to sweep there, but I haven't quite gotten to it. I predicted it'd be easier to work my way out of the room rather than in, considering I wouldn't want to track the dust all over the ground again."

Jean looked up at Armin, meeting his gaze, but he still couldn't find his voice. His face felt vaguely cold, as if this was the first time it had felt air. He reached up, touching his cheek gingerly with two fingers, testing its reality. He glanced down as he pulled his fingers away from his face. They looked as they always had, but he felt a slightly tingling on his fingertips. He felt entirely out of his element, but the sensation was…oddly comforting.

"Jean, are you alright?" Armin was standing up now, peering at him with a perplexed expression on his face, halfway between confusion and concern. Jean smiled at him, and there was no trace of his signature smirk. "Aye, Armin. You know, I overheard you having a slight…issue with your hair." Armin's cheeks flushed red; clearly he hadn't been meaning anyone to hear him. Jean's heart flickered in his chest, and he could feel his own cheeks going hot. He wondered at this for a moment, where he remembered this sensation from. Then he knew; he was in the mess hall at the training camp. Eren had just left, and he had floundered as he watched Mikasa walk past him. 'But this is Armin, not Mikasa' he thought. Watching the color drift across Armin's face, he realized he wasn't actually confused.

"I think I can help you, Armin." Jean walked into the room and stood in front of him. "Use this," he breathed. He reached around his hips and began untying his brown waistcloth. He held it across his two hands reverently and presented it to Armin, who looked at it and then into Jean's eyes. "What am I going to do with this?" he asked. Jean laughed, "And here we all are thinking you're the brilliant expert among us, Armin." Armin's cheeks grew even redder, and his eyes oscillated between confused and slightly annoyed. "What does that —" Jean cut him off by kneeling in front of him. Reflexively, Armin sat down on the bed again. Jean reached his hands behind Armin's head and laced the waistcloth underneath his hair. He marveled at the fact his fingers weren't trembling. In fact, he felt genuinely confident, an emotion he remembered out of his past. He realized no amount of emulating could compare to the real feeling. He focused on his own hands, but he could feel Armin's eyes staring intently into his. He breathed in the scent of Armin's light sweat mingling with the dust of ages. 'This must be what a library smells like', he thought, picturing Armin sitting amongst stacks of books wearing the same intense look on his face. Jean realized he preferred Armin looking at himself instead of words on a page. The waistcloth dropped from one of his hands, landing on Armin's shoulder. He picked it up delicately, risking a glance at Armin. Their eyes met, and Jean felt his heart flounder again. He swallowed, feeling the blush graze his cheeks and a smile sneak across his lips despite his muscle memory trying to hold his permanent scowl. Armin clearly saw the subtle changes in his body language, and stared at Jean's chest strap trying to puzzle out the meaning. Jean gathered up the cloth and brought it around the front of Armin's head. He looped it underneath his bangs, pulling them off of his forehead. Tenderly, he tied the cloth into a small knot.

Jean kneeled for a moment longer before he pushed off his knees and stood in front of Armin. His mouth was torn between a smile and smirk, which created a pleased sort of grimace. Armin looked up at him, having figured out the meaning behind Jean's shift in attitude. Touching his fingers to his forehead, he couldn't help but smile at the boy towering over him. "Th-thank you, Jean. That was quite kind of you. But what if heichou sanctions you for breaking uniform?" Jean laughed, and shrugged. "He'll take one look at you and realize I donated it to a worthy cause," he said, breaking out into a pure grin. Armin scoffed at him gently.

They remained still for a moment. Jean didn't feel particularly inclined to leave Armin's presence. He'd only just realized what had caused his earlier discomfort, his inability to know himself. How could he know himself if he was lying to his own conscious? He'd wanted to seem tough, he had thought, because it hurt that he would never be able to have Mikasa. But it hadn't been Mikasa at all, he had only assumed it was, in an attempt to explain his own behavior. It had been Armin. All along it had been him, sitting off to the side of Eren and Mikasa. No wonder Jean had overlooked him initially, he was so quiet and passive. The bright, glaring light that Eren and Mikasa created around themselves blurred Armin around the edges. Standing in front of him Jean saw him clearly, through his real eyes, and he tried memorizing how the sunlight shone on Armin's hair, giving him an angelic appearance.

The sudden and complete disappearance of his frustration was proof enough that he had gotten it all wrong, but he was sure that now he had it right. He glanced at the doorway, sensing the pieces of his invisible mask disintegrating and mingling with the dust that still hung in the air all around them. "Armin," he whispered like a prayer, only half realizing he had said it out loud. "Yes, Jean?" Armin asked, equally as quiet. He hadn't taken his eyes off Jean the entire time. Jean met his gaze without responding, then turned and walked towards the doorway. He paused, bracing his foot and shoulders against the frame. He looked up at Armin, whose eyes had trailed him across the distance that now seemed immeasurable, like the oceans Armin was so fascinated by. Armin's face was tinged with what Jean thought was longing, and he felt a loud thump in his chest.

Jean pointed towards the foot of the bed Armin was still sitting on. "You missed a spot." Then he turned and walked down the hallway.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first piece of fan fiction I’ve ever written, so I’m sure it’s probably shite but here it is. It takes place directly after chapter 51. I’d appreciate thoughts and feedback if you have any! I hope you enjoy. [Title courtesy of Spangle call Lilli line]


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